


Amy Dahmer

by henghost



Series: Amy Obsession [1]
Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Cannibalism, F/F, Necrophilia, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 20:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21042245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henghost/pseuds/henghost
Summary: Instead of going to the Birdcage post-S9, Amy runs away to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where, soon after, young women begin to disappear.





	Amy Dahmer

**Author's Note:**

> If you're at all squeamish, maybe this isn't for you.

The mannequin glared at me with her eyeless face. I could hear the taunts: _ pathetic, perverted, deviant, depraved. _They ricocheted around my head until it was impossible to say if it was me or her saying them. 

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window’s glare. A hood covered my thicket of hair, and the darkness obscured the worst of my freckles, but my eyes glowed with a sourceless fire, as if my body was telling me: this is what it is to be alive.

I pulled off my backpack, withdrew the towel, wrapped it around my right arm, and punched the glass. It cracked but didn’t shatter. I punched again, harder, and the window came toppling from its frame. 

After navigating the larger shards, I put her under my arm — lighter than the real thing, but with a definite heft — then fled into the night. 

#

I remember after my first shift at Ambrosia, after I’d just moved into that apartment, I felt light and airy and free, and so I took a stroll. A new beginning, I thought. A chance to start over. I found a long street-mall near the center of town.

It was cool and a breeze was blowing through the alleys. Young couples, college students, kept coming out of the evening air and laughing in each other’s arms. I passed friends talking in the windows of restaurants. I stepped off to the side and cried for a while.

And then I felt something else: a feeling for which there isn’t a name, like when you smell something fermented, in the pit of your stomach. All too familiar. It stung my insides like a thousand maggots writhing in my intestines. I tried to fight it off, I promise I did, but I think at a certain point I had to accept that this was me — I could never outrun myself.

The feeling led me to to a park bench a couple blocks away. There was this group of teenagers — they couldn’t have been older than fourteen — talking in a huddle right next to me. 

And the feeling intensified and intensified, and without thinking I unzipped my jeans and slipped my hand down there and started masturbating. I was being loud, too, so the kids took notice, and I noticed that they noticed, and I didn’t stop. 

I looked right into this one girl’s eyes, and I realized I wanted her to be afraid. I wanted her and her pack of friends to run away screaming. Instead, they all cackled and cackled, and the girl said, “Having fun, ma’am?”

Just my luck, a cop happened to be in the area and realized something was going on, and long story short I got arrested and spent the night in the county jail, trying to explain what had happened. 

I remember I was very apologetic: “I’m so sorry, officer. I’m new in town. I’ve never had this problem before. I know I need help. I’m getting help. I’m so sorry.”

Then the next day I went back to work drunk — nothing out of the ordinary — and tried to forget the whole thing.

#

Back in my apartment, which smelled like a farm, I took the bird I’d prepared and morphed it into something pliable. Muscle and veins and blood became soft, dead keratin. The red became yellow.

Using a bio-adhesive, I glued my living wig to the top of the mannequin’s head, then laid her across my bed. A memory of Carol telling me to wake my sister flashed like lightning in my head — how I’d stood silently above her for minutes, how I’d taken in every centimeter of her hairless face. 

I kissed my mannequin’s blank stretch of plastic, sour on my tongue, and I thought about making faux lips, but realized I couldn’t stand it if she had a mouth — then she might say no. Doing this was good for me, I told myself. No one would be hurt this way, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I only wanted a willing participant, company, someone to sleep next to. 

The situation reached a point where I needed a drink before I could continue. The ludovico playing in my mind of bones and death intercut with breasts and full red lips was giving me a migraine. So I took the cheap bottle of vodka from the counter and swallowed maybe half of it without taking a breath, and I looked back at half-living body on my bed, and I took another long sip.

I remember there was a time when I couldn’t drink wine at the dinner table.

Clumsily, I attempted to continue. I tried various things: using the contours of the face, using the stiff fingers, but in the end I came to accept that it was all in vain — this wasn’t what I really wanted. I lay down next to her, said I was sorry. In order to be with something dead, it has to have been alive first.

#

Where did it all start? Probably the right answer is it started when my mom made the grave mistake of giving birth to me. But that’s not the answer you want to hear, is it? 

I remember bits and pieces. An early fascination with roadkill. Mark says I once asked him what would happen if you boiled bones. Maybe with a different father or a different adoptive family, things would’ve been different, but I’m not sure I could say that with a lot of confidence.

I can pinpoint the exact moment I knew I was doomed: freshman year — this was before I got my powers — when we did a series of dissections in biology. During the basic ones (frogs, starfish, that kind of thing) all I felt was a cold anxiety. But then, since I was on the advanced track, we got to mammals. I faked sick for the mice, but I couldn’t miss any more school by the time fetal pigs were on the agenda.

Bio was fifth period, and my hands shook through all the morning classes. I was pretty friendless at that point (needless to mention) so no one paid any attention to the five times I threw up, or my profuse sweating, or my chattering teeth.

And then Mrs. Korsk was explaining the directions and pairing us off, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the pale and yellowish thing coiled on the slab in front of me. My hands were steady then. That might’ve been the first time I felt that rotgut feeling, low in my stomach. The fact that it wasn’t fear terrified me.

I got an A on the assignment — I had an affinity for anatomy, even before my trigger — and while I stayed after class and chatted with Mrs. Korsk, my other hand was putting one of the pigs (which were sealed tight in vacuum packs) in my backpack.

That night I took some of the things from my Victoria-stash — strands of hair, old clothes, discarded hygiene items — arranged them in a circle around my pig-bag, and masturbated for the first time. 

#

I was hungover in the chocolate factory the morning after the mannequin debacle. My job was to wrap little bonbons in foil. I killed the lingering bacteria on each, which was purely out of courtesy — the management didn’t know about my special “skill set”. No one in town did.

As always, fantasies swarmed my vision. Limp, lifeless women, mostly blonde. Sexy zombies. I would have done anything for relief. 

After my shift, I drank at home until my vision doubled. I’d taken a liking to alcohol. It was the cleanest thing in the world, and somehow even the act of letting burn down my throat was like meditation. Plus, it was the only thing I knew of that could keep the corpses from my mind. 

When the sun went down, I stumbled out of my apartment and a couple blocks south to Blu Shoes, which might’ve been the only lesbian bar in Milwaukee.

I’d been once before, but ended up not talking to anyone but the bartender, and only to order enough Scotch to kill someone twice my size. But now I had the kind of confidence only the truly desperate do. 

The confidence to do what? I wouldn’t let myself think about it.

The interior was dark and smoky, and it was impossible to discern anyone’s face — perfect. I sat in the corner-most stool and glanced every so often over my shoulder. I think I must’ve passed out at some point because I raised my head once and found that the scenery and semi-familiar faces were changed. 

A girl who looked too young to be in a place like Blu Shoes was sitting a few feet away. Her eyes glimmered in the low amber light, and she had long, curled black hair and dark-brown skin, i.e., she wasn’t exactly my type. But still, I found myself tripping over to her.

She said, “I’d order you a drink but I don’t want to kill you.”

I giggled like a girl ten years younger than me. “You’re so thaw— thoughtful.”

“I like your freckles.”

More dumb giggling. “Thanks. I like your eyes. Can, uh, do you, uh, want to come — _ hic _— to my, um, place?”

“You’re easy, huh?”

“We can walk from here, I bet you.”

She smiled and sipped from a long black straw. “I’ll follow you.”

I had to lean on her as we stumbled back to my apartment. Passers-by glared at us, I could see, their eyes piercing through Wisconsin blackness. 

When we got inside, she said, “Jesus, what died in here?”

I didn’t say anything. I poured the nicest alcohol I had into two glasses. She said, “Nice art,” when I gave her hers. 

“What?” I said. 

She pointed at the mannequin, which was leaning in the corner of the room. The wig had decayed, and was probably contributing to the odor.

I said, “Thanks.” Then I fell on her and put my lips on hers. For an instant I thought I might vomit into her mouth, but then she was pushing me away.

“Look,” she said. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I don’t usually, you know, have a ton of like one night stands or whatever. I mean, I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Claire.”

“Claire. I’m Star. It’s just, in this kind of society, you know, a place like this, people like us, you know, we have to like take what we can get you know. And it’s hard to be like committed. Claire. You know, my mom and—”

I was on her again, my tongue was down her throat, and I was moving her over to the bed. Then I was on top of her and pulling her clothes off and she was trying to hug me but I pinned her down and kissed her face and her eyes looked into mine and I looked away and she moaned and I shushed her and she kept moving and trying to wrap around me and so then without really thinking about it my power flashed and she was asleep and limp and all mine.

#

Victoria was my first, but that almost wasn't the case. As in, my first victim. It was almost this other girl. I was really going to do it. I don’t know what, but I almost did. 

This was back in Brockton Bay. I was on my own a lot of the time, before Victoria or I triggered. I sat at home looking out the window in my room, which overlooked Tristman Drive, the street that connected the suburbs where we lived to the tenements and seedy motels closer to the bay itself. 

Like clockwork, a woman would run by every evening, dressed in athletic clothes. College-age, tall, graceful. She always had her hair in a ponytail, and it swayed in the air like a pendulum. Her consistency amazed me. She’d jog past every day at eight p.m. like some kind of automaton.

These memories are filled with a haze of pubescence, like I’m looking at them through a colored filter, and everything’s saturated in a youthful glow. Fourteen, god, and already I was a lost cause. I knew I was gay by then — though it wasn’t like I could tell anyone. Not because I thought I’d get kicked out of the house. Carol and Mark et al. were always “open-minded”. But taboo compounds. 

Lesbian? Fine. But also vaguely incestuous? Possibly necrophilic? I knew I couldn’t tell anyone. 

I was also taking a lot of Halcion around then. I think they were my father’s, but he was always out, and it was the easiest thing in the world to step into my parents’ bathroom like a ghost and steal them from their medicine cabinet. They made me sleep, and when I was asleep I didn’t think about what that jogger would look like dead, or how her bones would feel between my fingers.

Ironically, I thought a lot about what _ I _would look like dead, too. Not for any sexual reasons, of course. I still had a conscience at that age, or at least something resembling one, and I knew that I could save everyone a lot of trouble if I took myself off the map. 

So this was my plan: I would stand outside and wait for the jogger and get her alone and give her a ton of Halcion and then do what I wanted with her. Then off myself. It was an easy solution, succinct. A meaningful way to go. Or at least this was my thought process at the time.

And, sure enough, after school one night I made a mug of tea and sat on the curb and allowed the fantasies to grow within me like an unending series of tumors. It was forty degrees and cloudy and I was wearing thin clothes, but I waited.

Then eight o’ clock came around and she hadn’t shown up. Then eight thirty. Then nine. When it was a little past midnight, Carol and Mark came back, still in costume, and asked me what I was still doing up (not with a lot of concern, obviously).

For the first time in months, that woman hadn’t gone for an evening run. As I lay in bed that night I realized it was probably because she’d been on a date. 

#

I’d always known how to create my perfect companion, the biological processes were something I’d figured out a long time ago. Still, it was a step to take. I needed to do it, but I was still too sober. 

I swallowed big gulps of cheap cinnamon whiskey and looked at Star, who was limp and and ashen on my bed. She wasn’t dead, not yet, but she wasn’t alive. Like a dog that had been “put to sleep”.

I tried to focus on the beautifully sterile alcohol and not the bacteria swimming between my vaginal walls, which tingled and taunted me, reminded me of my arousal.

Then, when my mind was sufficiently hazy, I went back to the bed, laid my hands on her naked chest, and made it so she straddled the thin line between living and dead. So she was warm but unconscious, so her body produced all the right fluids but not because of any direction from the brain. A sexy zombie.

Throughout this process, a life story told through cells played in my mind’s eye. A minor case of fetal alcohol syndrome, a deformed hypothalamus and adrenal gland that indicated post-traumatic stress. I was her first sexual partner.

Before beginning the next step, which would be to exaggerate her secondary sexual characteristics, I pulled my hands away. I stood, and my wavering vision focused in on a long scar on Star’s left arm. I groped for the bottle of whiskey. 

I couldn’t go through with it.

#

There was a long argument in my court case about whether I was sane enough to “appreciate the criminality of my actions”. Of course, sanity is subjective, but if I were to have the final say on that question, I would say that I was sane, even when my life had become nonstop mutilation and orgasm. It operated with an internal logic. The logic of dreams.

It wasn’t the real world, I knew, but it was a fuller actualization of the world I’d always lived in. I would wake up every morning and turn to face the zombie I’d made the previous night, with her lips the size of donuts and her breasts flowing like water over and under and through the blanket. I kept most of them in the bathroom, so they could watch me when I showered.

In a home filled with so many bodies, mine contained the only functioning mind, which was how I’d always lived, really, or pretended to. 

They were the only food I ate, which made making breakfast a time-consuming task, as I would have to masturbate at least twice during the preparation. By manipulating the biochemistry, I could make a cut of meat — which mostly came from the thighs or womb or breasts, the fattiest parts — not only safe to eat but tasty, something akin to fresh fish in sushi. I liked to eat the most in the morning because it meant I could keep some of them inside me throughout the day.

During work I’d plan my shrine, which was always the end goal. It meant I’d no longer need to kill. I never wanted to kill anyone. 

It would be a kind of table, formed from the biomass I had stored in my apartment. Bones would form a banister, skin the flat top, on which I would build a pile of pelvises and skulls. My brightest idea was to create a seat of flesh in front of my construction, so I could be held while I pleasured myself.

Recalling all of this, I’m disgusted and appalled that a human being could do the things I did, but I know I did them. I knew how grotesque and absurd it all was, even as I was elbow-deep, but it didn’t stop me. Maybe a life of perennial loneliness had desensitized me to it.

#

“Hello?”

“Hello? Is this Mrs. Lewis? Kira Lewis?”

“Yes, it is. May I ask who’s speaking?”

“Um, I’ll get to that. First, I just want to confirm that your daughter is Star Lewis.”

“No. She isn’t.”

“Oh, really? It says in the—”

“I’m not related at all to that little dyke.”

“Oh. Oh, I understand. Still, I want to say—”

“Ma’am, are you drunk?”

“What? No, of course not. Um, if you’ll give me a few moments of your time.”

“You have thirty seconds before I hang up.”

“Oh, um, okay. Well, you’ll probably be hearing a lot about me in the news soon, and about all the things I’ve done, um, and I wanted you to hear it from me first. Star Lewis is dead. And I think maybe you’ll think she ended up like the others, and that maybe I could undo what I did, which I couldn’t either way, but she’s dead, a hundred percent. And words can’t express how sorry I am, but also maybe when you watch the news soon you’ll see that it was really the best thing I could do for her.”

I heard sniffling on the other end, and I hung up.


End file.
